


Because I Love Him

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Clothing, Confessions of love, Happy Ending, John sleeps with sherlock's purple shirt, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, POV alternates between John and Sherlock, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Purple Shirt of Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, skull, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John is lost after Sherlock's apparent suicide and takes a few items from 221B to comfort himself. He is given a note by one of the Homeless Network that changes everything.





	Because I Love Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> Inspired by a twitter post by @fin_amour
> 
> "D’you ever think about how John had to pack up his things in the flat after Sherlock died and probably came across a lot of Sherlock’s stuff and maybe found like a shirt or something and kept it and maybe fell asleep every night clutching onto it 'cause I don’t"

 

_**Sherlock** _

_waking in the night /_ _I hear his breath, deep and regular in sleep /_ _I listen / just listen, to his breathing / feeling_ _safe and whole with him beside me / I_ _want to wake him with a kiss / feel_ _his heartbeat against my chest as I hold him close / I_ _want to whisper how much I want him / to_ _tell him how very sorry I am_

The plane lurches in turbulence, and I'm jolted awake from my dream. It’s dark, and the hum of the engines is the only sound. There’s a pilot, a co-pilot and me on this flight. The fewer people that know I’m alive, the better. I know this is true, no matter how painful the knowledge is. I had to do what I did, I tell myself. It was the only way to protect John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

Until Moriarty’s network is annihilated, they won’t be safe, and I intend to accomplish this, no matter what it takes. I’m single-minded in this mission. Mycroft has arranged funding and contacts in Morocco, Iran, and Serbia but other than that, I'm on my own. This is personal now. My pulse quickens, and I clench my jaw when I think of Moriarty and what he’s taken from me.

It was fun at first, the game we played, the battle of wits. I wanted to beat him. I remember that John was disappointed in me, and my wanting to play with Moriarty without giving thought to the human pawns involved. I _didn’t_ care, not until the people I love were threatened. All I could think about was winning.  Moriarty's dead now, and I’m alive, but I think he's won nonetheless.  He didn’t care about his own life; he was willing to lose it just to burn me. If I believed in Hell, I could take pleasure in thinking of him burning, but I don't, so I'm left just being angry. He took absolutely everything from me.

He ruined my reputation. I _do_ care if people think I’m not clever, John was right about this. All I’ve ever had is my own cleverness. Well, that is not quite true. Until John, all I ever had or cared about was my cleverness. When John came into my life, my world expanded and I think he changed me. Such a strong man. He was never intimidated by me, never hesitated to challenge me when I deserved it, and God knows I deserved it often. He wasn’t even intimidated by Mycroft. Him standing up to Mycroft - it makes me hard just thinking about it. My soldier John.

I wonder what he is thinking at this very moment. Does he hate me? I was there in the cemetery when he visited. I heard his plea “Don’t be dead”, and “No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.” So maybe I can hope.

I wonder what would have happened that night years ago, at Angelo’s, had I answered John’s questions differently.  I didn’t want a relationship then, didn’t want to complicate my life or have distractions. I’ve always been attracted to men, but I’ve seldom acted on it. I was truthful when I told John that I was married to my work. But John became part of that work, my partner, and I've grown to love him. I've always wanted him though. I think I might have a military kink if I ever allowed myself such an indulgence.

He was so outspoken about his heterosexuality that I never expressed my feelings, other than to remain non-committal when people invariable assumed we were a couple. I’ve had a thousand opportunities to tell him how I feel, but I never did. As usual, I’m my own worst enemy. I used to lie in my bed on Baker Street, thinking of him on the floor above me, and wondering if he was thinking of me too. I know that he loves me, at least as a friend. I know the lengths he would go to for me. He’s proved it again and again. Given the turn of events, it's probably for the best that it never went further than friendship. Even so, he doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to him.

Here in the dark, on this plane, my feeling of loss is overwhelming, and I think about the vial of morphine and syringe that are packed in my bag. No, not now. We will be landing soon, and I’ll need to be focused on my mission so that I can get back to London, and to John. I lean my forehead against the window, staring out into the darkness, and wonder what he’s doing right now.

 

**_John_ **

It’s been a week since we buried him. Mrs Hudson and I visited his grave today, and it was surreal. My brain still can’t process the fact that he’s gone. He can’t be dead, can he?  He was so much larger than life, such a force. Even though he was a strange and difficult flatmate, he made absolutely everything exciting, or at least really interesting. He was always surprising me, and not always pleasantly (I’m thinking now of the severed head in the fridge, and I’d laugh if I weren’t so miserable). Without him, the world seems cold, grey and meaningless. 

I haven’t slept; I’ve barely eaten. I’m embarrassed to be crying every day. I’m a soldier for god’s sake! I’ve seen plenty of death and have lost countless friends in battle. But Sherlock. Losing him is something completely different. Catastrophic. Grief overwhelms me, and I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this. I keep thinking of the gun in the drawer by my bed. Maybe it would be better if I were dead too. It would be a blessed relief from this pain. What do I have to live for now? My job? Not really. My family? I have no family except for Harry, and I haven’t even called her.

I told Mrs Hudson that I couldn’t go back to the flat just yet. I’d already taken new rooms across the city and wasn’t sure if I were ever going back. However, she convinced me to stop on my way home from the cemetery to see if there was anything of his that I wanted to take. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t dear," she assured me. Dear Mrs Hudson. She was a constant in our otherwise tumultuous lives, always there for us, and so perceptive. Far more perceptive than I would have liked her to be, truth be told. She knew about me before I even knew myself, or at least before I was willing to admit my feelings to myself. I’m going to miss her too. 

Walking through the doorway into the flat was eerie. It was so quiet.  It was so _wrong_. The smiley face with the bullet holes in it, his empty chair, the violin by the window. I felt his absence so acutely at that moment. Never again would he shoot the wall, play the violin at all hours, or sit impossibly folded up in his chair, shouting at the telly. How many clients had we interviewed in this room?  Hundreds probably. Most had been pronounced “dull” or "boring" and rudely dismissed from the flat, but those that were deemed worthy of his interest resulted in the best times I’ve ever had.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I walked through the flat. I picked up his violin and ran my fingers over the smooth wood. There was music on the stand. He had been composing something during the few weeks before he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. He stood for hours before the window with the violin under his chin, stopping only to pencil notes on the paper. The piece had been beautiful, a bit sad and haunting, but also joyous. I asked him once what it was called and he, of course, ignored me and went on scribbling notes. Now, I picked up the sheaf of papers and saw the title. Something in Italian?  I decided that I’d be taking the violin and the music, and I put them both in the violin case. I would never hear him play again, but I could keep this part of him with me anyway.

The chemistry equipment that usually lived in the kitchen had already been packed up by Mrs Hudson. I walked to the mantel and picked up the skull, staring into it's black, empty eye-sockets as it grinned at me. I decided I would take that too. I’m not sure why.  Finally, I went into Sherlock’s bedroom. His bed was unmade, as usual. He never saw any sense in making a bed. “Waste of time."

On the other hand, years in the military has compelled me to make my bed neatly every morning (these past weeks excluded). I crossed the room to the wardrobe and opened it. The precise arrangement of the hanging suits and shirts contrasted with the general slovenliness of the rest of the room. While unconcerned about his surroundings, he was always particular about his clothing. In the laundry pile, I spied his purple shirt. This one had always been my favourite. He was an attractive man and I always thought he looked particularly good in this shirt. It clung to his slim body and made the colour of his eyes pop. 

Yes, I was thinking of the way he looked. All the time I knew him I felt a simmering attraction. How could I help it? The man was beautiful. But I’m not gay! At least I used to think I wasn’t.  Maybe I’m bisexual? I don’t know. I’ve never had sex with a man and now I don’t think it will ever happen. Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I made a huge mistake by not exploring the feelings I had for him. I know I loved him.  _Love_ him. If he were to walk through that door right now there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d throw my arms around him, kiss him, and pull him down onto the bed with me. How he would feel about that? Would he be shocked and push me away or would he kiss me back?

I sometimes fantasized about what it would be like to kiss him, to run my fingers through those inky curls. I wondered how it would feel to be pressed against him skin to skin. Now I would never know. As I thought about this, I picked up the shirt and buried my face in it. His smell flooded my nostrils and I revelled in it. I closed my eyes and just held it against my face as I sobbed. I would take the shirt.

I had to get out. I had to escape the utter wrongness of the place. Clutching the shirt, the skull and the violin case, I ran from the flat. I didn’t stop to say goodbye to Mrs Hudson. I caught a cab to my new place, trying to avoid the gaze of the cabbie who doubtless was wondering what was wrong with the puffy-eyed man holding a skull and a crumpled tear-stained shirt in the back of his cab.

Now I’m back in my flat sitting on my bed. The skull is staring at me with its empty sockets from its perch on my chest of drawers.  Why did I bring that sodding thing? I feel like hurling it against the wall to watch it smash into a thousand bits of bone, but I don't. I remember when he told me I was “doing fine” as a replacement for the skull, which was a low bar for companionship, indeed. That was forever ago. Now the situation seems morbidly reversed. 

I’m still holding his shirt and suddenly I’m so tired. I lie back on the bed and roll to my side, drawing my knees up, the shirt against my face. “Sherlock, why wouldn’t you let me save you?” I whisper.  “I wouldn’t have cared about your reputation. All I want is to have you back.” I’m surprised that I have any tears left but they come, wetting Sherlock’s shirt for the second time.  Eventually, mercifully, I sleep.

  

**_Sherlock_ **

I’m in Morocco. I’ve settled into a safe-house that Mycroft arranged for me and have been working on locating the members of Moriarty’s network operating here. It hasn’t been difficult. Without the brains of the operation instructing them, these men are mostly stupid and very predictable; no match for me. I hope to dispatch them in short order.

I’ve heard from Mycroft that John has resumed therapy. This is encouraging news. I’ve been worrying about him and have been pestering my brother to send me updates. I miss him so much.

 

**_John_  **

I started back to work today. Sarah was kind to let me take a month off. I saw the alarmed look on her face when she saw me this morning. I’ve been drinking too much and sleeping too little. I know I look awful. I barely got through the day and I suspect that my patients could tell that I wasn't completely present. Life still seems meaningless and I can’t stop thinking about the gun. I just want the pain to stop.

I went to see my old therapist after work. It’s been eighteen months since I last saw her. She tried to get me to talk about Sherlock, of course, but I didn’t want to. She even suggested that I try blogging again. What would I blog about?  I do nothing but walk endlessly through the streets or lie curled on my bed hugging Sherlock’s shirt. I don’t want to share my feelings about him with her.  I know that’s probably wrong but I just can’t. _I’m not going back_ , I decide, as I pour myself another drink.

I take his shirt to bed with me every night. It’s the only way I can sleep. I sleep shirtless and hug it against me, imagining it’s him. It comforts me. I won’t wash it because it still has his scent. I wish I could go back in time and have just ten minutes with Sherlock. That would be enough to tell him how I really feel. Enough time to kiss him and tell him that I don’t care about any of it. I don’t care about the newspaper articles, I don’t care about whether Jim fucking Moriarty is real or if Richard Brooks is real. If I had been less of a coward and had told him how I felt about him before all this happened would it have made a difference? Would it have kept him from jumping? Did my insecurity about my sexuality kill him?  I don’t know, but the guilt is eating away at me. I don’t know how much more of this I can endure. Today I checked to make sure my gun is loaded.

 

**_Sherlock_  **

I receive a text from Mycroft today on his secure government line telling me that John has stopped going to therapy and that he’s been drinking too much. This alarms me. I know that John is strong. It’s one of the things that attracts me to him, but I also remember what he was like when I met him, possibly suicidal. I text Mycroft back.

SH:    Should I be concerned?

MH:   Your goldfish does not look well. I believe there is some reason for concern.

SH:    Talk to him, and don’t call him my goldfish.

MH:   He won’t see me and he’s blocked my number. I’m afraid he blames me for giving information about you to JM.

SH:    So do I.

MH:   Yes, I know, but that hardly matters now.  I’ll step up surveillance.

SH:     Maybe I should contact him.

MH:   Certainly not. 

SH:     Piss off.

I turn off my phone. I know that contacting John is the wrong thing to do.  I know it. I don’t want to put him in danger. I don’t know how long it will take me to dismantle Moriarty’s organization but it could be a long time.  Possibly years. Every fibre of my being tells me that contacting John is too risky. But he’s drinking, he’s stopped therapy.  What if he does something stupid? I absolutely cannot lose him. I will not lose him. I’ve got to find of a way out of this. Think. _Think_!

 

**_John_  **

I walk incessantly. Every day after work and every weekend. I keep my eyes on the pavement and just… walk. It keeps me sane, but just barely. I’m walking today, as usual, thinking about the past, about Sherlock. I’m trying to re-live the good times in my head. I pass a newsstand. Thankfully, nothing in the newspapers. They seem to have forgotten him and to have moved on to the next scandal. Thank god. I’m heading back toward my flat when I hear a voice. “Spare change, sir?” A beggar is asking me for money. She seems vaguely familiar. I pull out a tenner and offer it to her. She takes it and deftly slips a piece of paper into my hand.

Something tells me not to unfold the paper here on the street. I nonchalantly slip it into my pocket and walk calmly back to my flat. My heart is pounding. Once inside, I open the note.

 

  _John,_

_I can’t explain everything now. I just need you to know that I’m not dead. You cannot tell ANYONE about this, not even Mycroft. Your safety depends on your discretion. Burn this note immediately._

_SH_

My blood runs cold. What kind of sick fuck is Moriarty anyway?  This must be his doing. I saw Sherlock die! I saw him fall. I saw the blood on the pavement. I went to the funeral. When will this nightmare end?

I find a piece of paper and a pen and I write “Fuck off” on it. I’ll take this with me on my walk tomorrow and give it to the woman if I can find her. Right now, I need a drink, probably several drinks.

  

**_Sherlock_  **

John doesn’t believe that I’m alive. I should have known that he wouldn't just accept the note without more proof. I’m getting really worried about him. I text Mycroft.

SH:   Any news on John?

MH:  I’ve had a camera installed in his flat.

SH:   And?

MH:   He’s still drinking, still not going to therapy.

SH:    Anything else?

MH:  Brother-mine, sometimes he cries.   

Oh, John. I drop my phone and pace the floor frantically. I don’t like not being in control. I’ve got to try again to get a note to him. I can’t call him, it would be too easily traced, his phone is not secure. It has to be a note through my homeless network. I think the time has come to be honest. The way he’s acting makes me think that perhaps I was wrong about him. Maybe he does think of me as more than a friend. The thought of this makes me happy but I warn myself to be careful. If I cock this up it will be his death sentence. 

 

**_John_  **

One day bleeds into the next. I feel adrift. I can’t bring myself to contact anyone from my old life. Mrs Hudson has called, Lestrade has called, even Molly, but I don’t answer. I blocked Mycroft. If I ever see that traitorous bastard again I might actually kill him. Work is work, I’m just going through the motions there. At home, the skull stares at me, accusingly. I should get rid of the thing but I don’t because it was _his_. I use the word “home” loosely. I don’t think of this as home, but just as a place to sleep. Baker Street was home, but it was only home because we were there together.

The nightmares have come back.  The ones I used to have when I returned from Afghanistan. I wake up soaked and shaking in the middle of the night on a regular basis. Sherlock’s shirt is beginning to smell more and more like my sweat and less and less like him. So I’m even losing that. Sometimes, when I’m having a good day, I think that I need to get rid of my gun because on those bad days, especially the bad nights, it calls to me and I’m afraid one of these nights I’m going to answer.

I’m going to walk now.

It’s a chilly evening and I'm walking quickly with my head down, collar up against the wind. I’m so lost in my own pathetic thoughts that I almost don’t hear her.

“Spare change?”

It’s her again. Bloody hell. Against my better judgement, I hand her some money. She presses a folded paper into my hand. Why is he doing this to me, taunting me? He's killed Sherlock, is he trying to kill me too? I hurry back to the flat and open the note.

 

_John,_

_Before reading this, get out of your flat. You are being watched._

I step into the hallway and continue reading.

_I 'm really alive.  I know you require proof so I’m going to tell you some things that only you and I would know and also, something very important that I want you to know._

_Remember that first case we worked when you killed for me?  Only you and I know it was you.  It thrills me when I think about it._

_Remember what you said to me when we were in the lab that last day?  “You machine.”  I’m sorry John, but it’s who I am. Then your last words, “Friends protect people” or at least those were the last before I called you from the roof.  John, you are so much more than my friend and I am protecting you by being dead._ _You’ve got to trust me on this._

_The last bit of proof is in your possession, I think. I was in the middle of composing when I was so rudely made to jump off a building.  Mycroft tells me you have my violin and music. I was composing that piece for you, John. Look at the title._

_I’m far away and not sure when I’ll be able to come home. I’m so sorry that I have put you through this. Please wait for me._

_I love you John, and when I return to London, I'm going to show you just how much, if you’ll consider it._

_You must destroy this letter immediately and do not tell anyone, including my insufferable brother._

_SH_

 

I’m standing when I read this but my vision blurs and I fall to my knees, dropping the paper to the floor and gasping for air.

He's alive!  I cannot adequately describe the sensation that washes over me. I am overcome by relief. He is in this world with me, if we looked up perhaps we would see the same stars. Tears run down my face again but finally, they are not tears of pain and grief, but of joy. He loves me. Those words echo in my head. 

The music. I haven’t touched the violin case since bringing it back from Baker Street. I go back into the flat, find the case, open it and take out the music. The title, " _Perch_ _é io lo amo"_ looks like Italian to me. I pull out my phone, quickly locate a translation site and type it in. “ _Because I love him_ ” is the result.

He loves me. I still almost can’t believe it. All this time we were loving each other but pretending not to?  Being best friends when we could have, should have, been more? I’m ashamed of how I’ve behaved, how I denied what I felt for him. If only I’d been braver, then at least perhaps I would have the memory of his kisses to console me now.

I fall onto my bed and begin laughing deliriously. “He loves me!” I shout. “He loves me!” I inform the skull, who just grins. “He loves me and he’s alive,” I whisper to myself. I find Sherlock’s shirt and hold it close. The faintest smell of him still clings to it and I breathe it in like a drowning man who's just broken the surface of the water. I will wait for him and I will _live_. 

 

  ** _Mycroft_**

 Brother-mine, what have you done. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
